When he fell on the battlefield, it should have been the darkest time of the day, and there would probably be a morning star shining dimly on the horizon. But that was a battlefield, and the cannonballs with fire and blood streaked across life and death, shining into the last dazzling day of this life in the dark eyes.
Dazzling, empty, in the deepest night, the brightest day.
The colors he had in his life, gorgeous, pale, gray, bright...
They all merged into that piece of gray, like streams flowing into rivers, rushing towards the sea in crowds, never to come back.
Conception: